Page 19 of Mr. Mistletoe
Jess
HelpingGran pack for the Mistletoe Market in Starlight Bay takes my mind off my rejection from The Chinoiserie Squirrel—and the fake number situation with my potential soul mate.
Gran’s latest batch of cinnamon-pine candles is going to be a hit this year. I’ll be smelling them for days, long after I tape the last box shut.
A knock rattles the back door of the workshop, and then it swings open. In walks Matt, all broad shoulders and brotherly disapproval.
“Thought I’d help Gran load up for the Christmas Market,” he says casually—like we haven’t gone ten whole days without speaking since he blew up at me over the Kiss Cam debacle.
“Gran doesn’t need help,” I mutter, tucking bubble wrap around a candle. “She has me.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been busy locking lips with strangers,” he shoots back, voice low but sharp.
I whip around, my cheeks heating. “Oh my God, are we still on this? It was one kiss. A stupid, meaningless, in-the-moment kiss!”
Matt crosses his arms. “You didn’t even know his name.”
“Just forget it,” I tell him, wishing I could too.
He scowls. “I’m trying.”
“Owww!”
The cry from just outside the door shocks us both into silence. We rush outside to find Gran cradling her wrist.
My eyes widen. “Gran! What happened?”
“My arm’s busted. No cap.”
Matt and I exchange a look—half worry, half disbelief at Gran using slang. He takes her arm and inspects it, making her yelp when he presses too hard.
“You can’t drive like this,” he says.
“Or run your booth,” I add.
Gran stands beside the stack of boxes ready to be loaded, looking hopeful. “Maybe one of you can take my place.”
Matt and I stare at each other.
“I can’t,” he says. “Gordon’s in the Christmas play this weekend.”
I open my mouth, but no excuses come out. I don’t have a son in a play. Or a job I have to get to. I’ve been staying up until two a.m. trying to work on a new collection, but things are at a standstill.
“I guess I can do it,” I say with reluctance.
Gran beams. “Perfect. Jess, a weekend away is exactly what you need.”
“You seem awfully cheery for someone with a serious injury,” I say, eyeing her wrist.
She winces and cradles it. “I just don’t want you to worry.”
Great. Now I feel like a monster for doubting my elderly grandmother. “Do you want some ice?Or I can take you to the doctor?”
“No.” She waves me off. “I’ll be fine. I’m a tough old bird.”
Matt crosses his arms, giving her the same look our mom used to when we were kids. “You should really have it looked at. At your age—”
Gran cuts him off. “Nonsense. I’ll be fine with a little rest.”
